


All I Want For Christmas

by Everlind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn, See also: porn, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seriously, if you’d have known Future You would end up quadrants-full and bumping uglies with an alien you’d have - well. Fuck, fine, you’d probably have done the exact same fucking thing. John’s pretty great. You know. When he’s not being a goddamn pest and annoying the living putrid feces straight out of you like he’s doing right now.</p><p>“Splash me one more time and I will put my fist through that festering flapping stinkhole you call a face.”</p><p>John grins, a flash of white teeth, and flicks water at you again.</p><p>--<br/>In which quadrants are blurred, snowmen are built, baths are taken and colourfully wrapped boxes are exchanged. Or not.<br/>They also fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas

It’s cold.

So fucking cold you’re not sure what’s going to freeze off first: your sniffnode or your prongs. You huddle in your layers of clothing and glare at Dave and John, who’re playing in the snow together like two spectacularly mentally challenged wrigglers. Right now they’re pushing a clot of snow around until it becomes a giant ball. John’s got snow in his hair and Dave’s lips are turning blue, but as soon as they deem it big enough they simply begin rolling another one.

Holy shit what is your life.

You’ve not a single fucking idea what they’re trying to achieve by making giant balls of snow, but at one point they want you to help lifting the smaller of the two on top of the biggest. John stuffs snow into the back of your jacket while you’re stooped low enough for him to reach. Shrieking in fury you tear after him and you chase him halfway across the park until he disappears up to his armpits into a snowdrift.

You laugh at him while he squirms ineffectively, but then his teeth begin to do a weird clacking thing so you dig him out. Hold him up and shake him until most of the snow falls off before putting him back on his feet. His nose is icy when he kisses you (while doing dumb clumsy hop to reach, causing his face to smash into yours and nearly knocking a few of your teeth loose).

It’s already getting dark by the time they’re finished. Supposedly the result of their stacked snow structures adorned with twigs, dead plant matter and stones are Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. It looks nothing like them at all, which is saying something because taking an upside-down dump and shitting all over yourself rates as better art than that fucking comic. (You check for updates regularly— nobody can ever know. Dave probably knows.)

Dave takes pictures while John poses with the snowmen, making dumb faces — well, dumber than usual. Your eye rolling goes ignored, but Dave snaps a quick shot of you scrunching up your nose as it beings to snow again. By the time you finally get them to leave, it is fully dark. The white snow glitters in the beams of the streetlights and everything seems muffled and muted. Snow crunches underfoot. Both of them are shivering continuously now and Dave’s definitely turning blueish - you wouldn’t call yourself an expert on humans just yet, but you’re pretty sure that’s not a thing that should be happening. After depositing Dave safely at his hive and glaring at him until he actually goes inside, you wrap an arm around John and head home.

The hive is dark but for the dimly glowing lights strung in the tree sitting in a corner of the recreation block. Even though you scoffed at this custom at first, you have to admit that it’s nicer than a behemoth’s leaving. If only because of the smell. 

John’s teeth are still clacking, and while his skin’s too dark to turn blue the way Dave’s did, you’re pretty sure he needs to warm up fast.

“This was a fucking dumb idea,” you tell him as you help him strip out of his clothes. Slap his uncoordinated numb hands away and yank his shirt up over his head.

“My glasses!” he yelps and you fish them out of the rumple of fabric and set them away safely. “Those snowmen were so sweet. They were legendary, man.”

“Yes, because rolling giant spheres from powdery ice and sticking twigs in it makes perfect sense. Just like throwing it at each other makes perfect sense, not forgetting rolling around in it flapping your dumb stumpy limbs. Perfect fucking sense. Only drawback being that you’ve turned into a human ice pop.”

“Does that mean you’re going to lick me?” John asks, wagging his brows as he steps out of his pants.

“Just get in the goddamn ablution trap,” you tell him. 

He hisses when he does, face scrunching up as the warm water laps at his legs. You wait for him to settle before following him. It’s already one of the bigger models, large enough you can sit down in it, but with the two of you it’s downright cramped. John’s toes are nearly up in your nook and both your knees stick out into the cold air. 

There’s a weird moment where your gills go _hey water_ but with your head up in the air it’s not really a great idea for them to be doing anything. You don’t want another episode of choking on nothing because you couldn’t figure out which to use. They still flare, painting bright red slashes along your flanks.

John goes _heheh_ and gently runs his fingers down your ribs. It feels weird for him to be touching them right now, but he knows to be careful. It is really fucking strange to see him display such obvious fond affection towards your gills, seeing as they were basically a ticket straight to the culling block on Alternia. 

“Tickles,” you say.

“Sorry,” he sits back and shifts until he can hook his legs over yours and tuck his feet behind the small of your back. It puts him nearly in your lap and yeah, that’s really fucking interesting. The heat of the water makes him flush deeply enough you can even see a hint of it across his cheekbones and the tip of nose. His eyes are sleepy-hooded and it kind makes him look freshly fucked, all loose-limbed and hazy. 

It’s… weird. Feeling like this. Not bad, not really, but confusing, and John’s not helping by looking like sex, but also like he needs caring for. 

Seriously, if you’d have known Future You would end up quadrants-full and bumping uglies with an alien you’d have - well. Fuck, _fine_ , you’d probably have done the exact same fucking thing. John’s pretty great. You know. When he’s not being a goddamn pest and annoying the living putrid feces straight out of you _like he’s doing right now_.

“Splash me one more time and I will put my fist through that festering flapping stinkhole you call a face.”

John grins, a flash of white teeth, and flicks water at you again.

You push his head under.

He flails.

About half the contents of the tub go over the edges.

John goes for the soft, tender parts of skin right under your grubscars, locking his legs around you so you can’t shove him off.

You shriek.

A bottle of shampoo flies through the room.

And then your horn goes _bok!_ into the wall and cracks a tile. Possibly also your head. Fucking ouch.

John just goes: “Oops.”

“HOLY FUCK,” you yowl, clutching your horn. 

“Your horn is fine, dude, don’t be such a crybaby.”

“Oh really, let’s slam your feeble skull into the wall and see how you like it, you whining rectal belch,” you hiss, glowering.

“Boo fucking hoo, lemme see,” he says and rises up out of the water until your nub is poking into his chest. His fingers rifle through your hair and trace your horn. “Whoa this looks pretty serious. It’s gonna need to be amputated, buddy, there’s nothing to be done. I’ll just go get the saw.” 

You nip at his skin, thoroughly annoyed. Hard enough to draw pinpricks of bright red, shiny and bright on his dark olive skin. Pretty.

“Oi,” he goes, pulling at our hair in response.

“Don’t bait me, John,” you tell him, grooming your new mark with careful licks.

“Dude, seriously, everything pisses you off. Don’t think I didn’t hear you yelling at the toaster this morning. Pretty sure the neighbors heard it, too. And the neighbor’s neighbors. And the neighbor’s neighbor’s neighb—“.”

“It was holding my fermented ground grass seed tray hostage,” you interrupt him. And then add, softer, “Is it cracked?”

“It’s fine,” John says. Smacks a kiss on it. Probably, you can hear him go ‘ _mwah_ ’ near your hair and there’s fleetingly the sensation of warmth. “There, all better. Or does poor widdle Karkat want a bandaid?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later,” John says, grinning when you flush.

 

Later, however, is John stealing your sweater and arranging lanky limbs all over the couch so you have no place left to sit. You were planning on wearing that sweater, too. It doesn’t even fit him, it’s too damn big —has to roll the sleeves up like an asshole and the hem hits him nearly mid-thigh.

Later is also John falling asleep not even halfway through the movie, drooling on your arm and no fucking of any sort happening. So you watch the rest by yourself trying to chew your popcorn quietly (popcorn absolutely sucks by the way, the kernels get stuck between your fangs and leave a weird aftertaste like something took a piss on your tongue before backflipping into your nasal cavity. Grubcorn is superior all the way). 

Later is you oozing on the couch with your thinkpan microwaved to a gooey mess. Watching four Christmas movies in a row wasn’t your brightest fucking idea to date (then again you’re the goddamn king of assfuckingawful ideas. See: let’s play this game Sollux created from some dodgy technology Aradia found in some ruins, it’ll be _fun_ ). You rather like the holiday themed sludge humans come up with, they’re the best kind of terrible and there’s a veritable vault of romance centric ones (you especially adore Love Actually). The songs are pretty awesome, too, but John hid the radio a few days ago in fit of pique because he has issues with Celine Dion. Pussy.  

Later is you staring unblinkingly at the rolling credits and skritching John’s hair absentmindedly. His face is planted rather unfortunately into your crotch, huffing warm air and occasionally smacking his lips. Fucking great. Damn it. You don’t want to wake him up, but the weirdass puddle that’s left of your quadrants bubbles in confusion. Sex? YES PLEASE. Wibbling over how he trusts you enough to sleep on you? Yes, dammit. Throwing his rude teasing ass onto the ground and fucking him until he screams? Hell yes. Lucky there’s only two of you now because otherwise you’re sure there’d be some ashen shenanigans in there, too, and you’re pretty sure your cognitive thinking tubes would dribble out of your ears if that happened. 

Later ends up being when you carry is inconsiderate ass to bed (he’s _heavy_ ), stripping both of you before slipping in behind him. 

So, yeah, you don’t really understand the appeal of snow and the whole deal with Christmas. You’re pretty sure they exchange presents and you didn’t get one. (Where would you even go to get one? What is supposed to be in it, even? Why only on that specific day? You should’ve asked him. You didn’t ask him. What the hell humans, how do they work and why didn’t yours come with a goddamn manual?) Your quadrants are a mess, what’s even worse is that it somehow _works_ \- when you both agreed to try a few months ago you were so sure it wouldn’t work. You have four quadrants and John only one and you’re two different species. John is a goddamn alien. This is some fucked up interspecies whateverthefuckeven right here.

But when John makes a small noise, turning to face you and burrowing into your chest, well. It’s okay.

This is worth figuring out.

*

You wake up horny.

Big surprise. _Not_. Unless you count John’s dick hard against your hip. Okay, that counts. He’s still asleep. _How do humans work_ , you have no damn idea. 

The new universe came with new porn. Obviously! If there is any universal constant out there it’s porn. Because the new world came populated with humans, trolls, and carapacians, there was also a whole new world out there to be discovered. A world of really weird and disturbing porn (seriously, never watch carapace porn if you know what’s good for your mental sanity. Hint! It’s _not_ carapace porn, you cross-eyed shitsucker). You remember the first time you and Dave watched interspecies porn. It was awful. Dave pissed himself laughing and you veritably shat yourself with rage. Ugh. Still, having a vague idea what to expect did not prepare you for your first encounter of the third kind and what the hell is even going on in their pants.

John’s pants, more specifically. Because seriously, what is that dangly bits, frumpy skin and hair deal anyway? You’d been a little weirded out. Worse is that John knew you’d be. You’d gone first (having lost at rock-paper-scissors) and as soon as he’d gotten a look he’d gone all skittish about showing his ( _yours is so tidy!_ and you’d been seriously confused, until he undressed. Then: _oh_.).

You got over it real damn quick, though. Hmn.

He’s warm. 

Turning into him, the two of you slide and tangle. The swell of his thigh slots between your legs and presses up agains your crotch. You hiss through your teeth, your bulge swelling and your nook slick against his skin. 

“Stop purring in my ear,” John grumbles, voice thick and sleepy. But his hand smoothes down the length of your spine and he hitches his leg higher between yours, dragging your own wetness back against you.

You find his lips and rumble into his mouth instead. There’s nothing sexy or even adorable about your purring, it sounds like a rusty bladed whirring device with a couple of pebbles tossed in for extra aggravation, all dual tones and awkward hitches. John seems to like it, the way he sighs happily and pulls you closer. Says it’s because he knows you feel good and he _wants_ you to feel good.

John makes you feel good. So fucking good. 

Right now he’s still too sleep-sodden to do much but cuddle and kiss you slowly, so you wriggle out of the sheets, check for the towels before climbing into his lap. John watches you, a faint smile on his face as he rests both palms on your thighs.

“Good morning,” you tell him, lowering yourself until the heat of your nook is settled over his dick.

His chest hitches and he has to swallow twice before he manages a “morning,” back.

“So I was thinking,” you begin, right as you slowly begin to grind, “seeing as you humans have the absolutely nonsensical notion to hand each other wrapped boxes on Christmas-“

“-th-there’s usually something nice in it!” John interjects, fingers pressing hard into the taut muscles of your legs. 

“Yes, contrary to present company I’m not that fucking dumb, you disordered snot sniffer,” you tell him. Fff- _uck_ this feels good, rolling your hips down to drag yourself along hard length of his cock, probably leaving translucent red in your wake. God, fuck. But. You were saying something. Yes. “What I was trying to say is, well.”

Fuck, okay. Damn, what if he got you something? You look at John spread out on the sheets, with his thick black hair and lovely dark skin that makes his blue eyes fucking _glow_ with the contrast and he’s beautiful, no matter that he has no horns and muscle sits differently on his body. It doesn’t matter that his teeth are useless and the angles in his face are different. There’s a hole in the middle of his belly and he’s different inside and out - even his heart doesn’t beat the same.

But he’s yours. 

You stop rocking because there is no doubt that you are the shittiest, most god-fucking-awful matesprit, boyfriend, lover, ergh _whatever_ there is. You didn’t get him anything.

“I didn’t get you anything,” you blurt, suddenly miserable. Because there’s no way you deserve _this_ and the way John’s thumbs are rubbing slow circles along the inside of your thighs, the way he looks at you, it fucking kills you.

John blinks, slowly. Grins. “But you did get me something” and, of course, begins to hum. It’s just a snatch, but the part he actually sings out loud makes your cringe with how corny it is (lies; you squirm and frown but it’s _nice_ , okay?). “- _all I want for Christmas is youuuuuuu, you baaaaby!_ ”

“Oh my god,” you say. “You’re terrible.”

John chuckles, but it’s low and gritty. Knowing. “Uh-huh,” he goes as his hands slide up your legs to grip your hips. “ _C’mere_.”

Following the pull of his palms, he encourages you to crawl up over his body until your crotch is hovering over his face. The intent of it is enough for your bulge to finally unsheathe. 

“Oh, hello,” John says. “Nice of you to join us.”

“John, for shit’s sake how many times do I have to tell you to not talk to- a _AH_!” 

His tongue is wet and warm as he licks slowly up your nook. You sway and plant a hand against the wall above the headboard to keep from collapsing. Look down the length of your body to see John cup his mouth over the base of your bulge and _wink_. Goddammit. Still, you huff a noise that might be a soundless laugh, John’s lips quirk in response and then you dissolve into a loud surprised moan as he sucks gently at the slick, flushed flesh of your nook.

You help him out by trapping your bulge against your lower stomach and maybe you shouldn’t want to watch, but you do, fuck, you _do_ , with your head tipped against your own bicep, mouth hanging open to pant, eyes lidded. 

John’s just beginning with steady, deep licks that part your slit under his tongue and then finally into you, drawing a warbling scream out of you that’s embarrassing as hell. You don’t care, not with John’s mouth open and hot against you, allowing you to grind against him as his hands reach around to grip your buttocks.  

You’re keening a continuous whine of need, you know you are and you can’t _stop_ and John doesn’t tell you to either, when he draws back with an obscene wet gasp. Licks his swollen lips to look up at you, only to lean back in and lick up any wetness he didn’t get. Lets go of a buttock to trace two fingers along the edges of your nook, slowly. Carefully, _finally_ , pushes them in. Your nook grips him, tries to draw him deeper and you groan even as John mouths obscenities against your inner thigh at the sensation.

He moves to your bulge and you obligingly lean forward to let him get his mouth on it.

You’re shaking and tense and needy, hand unsteady as you pet his hair. It feels wonderful, thick and smooth. Like something rich and luxurious you would never be able to afford, couldn’t possibly, and yet somehow John is sucking you off. God. He holds you carefully in his mouth, only the first couple of inches, laves his tongue against the underside and mouths lightly  — you can’t handle more than that, so you just allow yourself the heat of his wet mouth, his soft tongue, his fingers moving at a steady pace inside of you - in-out-in-out - and your nook’s so damn wet you can _hear_ it.

Your nook clenches and releases, tries to work him, and John slips in a third finger when you’re relaxed. The noise you make is definitely red, as red as your blood, _his_ blood, needy and pleading with a soft trill to it.

A little more and you’re done and gone, but you’re so fucking turned on by now you just want him to fuck you, scoot back and stuff yourself on his dick. Besides, you want to touch him, too. Be closer, let him bury himself in you until you can’t tell where you begin and he ends.

You pull away and John makes a questioning noise. His mouth looks _bruised_. That’s you on him, mostly, your red looks purple with his skin, so you wipe it off with the soft part of your hand before reaching for the towels. “Want you to fuck me,” you say, somewhat hoarsely.

“Oh.”

That’s all. 

You smirk, smug as hell because the two of you have only tried this a handful of times and it doesn’t always work. You need to be utterly relaxed and ready, because his dick doesn’t move -it’s hard and rigid and he needs to move himself to create friction and yeah. The few times it did work was a-fucking-mazing. Literally.

The towels are thick and fluffy. Black. You spread them out, overlapping all three. John grabs and rolls you as soon as you’re done, settling on top of you.

You’re bigger and taller, heavier. Humans are lighter, slighter, not nearly as tall. And you’re short, really ridiculously fucking short for a troll and John’s tall for a human and you don’t match, not really, a little out of alignment in most ways, but John pins your wrists and bites at the edge of your jaw and you let him. 

Let him and tip your head back until your useless rounded horns poke into the pillow, shameless surrender if there ever was one —it’s mostly lost on John, even, but that’s alright, because _you_ know.

Your thighs go slack on either side of him as he settles between them. John winds his fingers of the right hand with yours, frees his left to cup your jaw and kiss you. Open mouthed and a little different, don’t want to make him bleed, not just yet and your mouth is full of sharp fangs and he has funny flat chompers that are more adorable than they have any right to be.

Your weird alien boy.

His body seems to hinge a little differently, go on for longer here or shorter there, no horns for you to grip, smells different - softer, everything a little softer with them, even his skin, almost but not quite like that peach you once tried (was good, sweet and tasty) but smoother - and yet they’re warriors, too. John has a ridge of scar tissue right on his sternum and he’s _strong_ , really strong and brave — you feel safe and wanted with him and good. Really fucking good.

You smooth the pad of your thumb over his nipple and he does a sweet and lovely breathy gasp. Lick it and do it again, until it hardens under your touch and John’s wavering slightly, like he might keel over.

“Karkat,” he murmurs.

“Hmm,” you answer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Come on then.”

John nods, almost thoughtlessly eager, and presses in, a hot steady push that hurts, you’re not going to lie, but you’re hungry for it and it’s good, too. Your groan, deep and and intimate, against John’s mouth, fingers tangled in his black hair.

Pause together for a moment, rub noses and press your faces together in wordless promises _almost almost_ share shaky kisses. John watches your face, nuzzles into your hair, distracts you with a sharp nip to your bottom lip. You allow your claws to prick the back of his neck, just a little. He’s thick and insistent inside of you. Feeling your nook grip at him, clench and pull, it’s achy raw and _good_. 

“God, Karkat,” he grits out against your throat.

“That’s right, you’rrrrrrre- _ah!_ finally getting it,” you tell him, pulling him deeper with your legs. “Worthless human.”

“Yeah?” John snickers, petting a hand down your side and lighting bright points of sensation when he passes over your gills. Pinches at your grubscar - you yelp.

Involuntarily clench down.

John yelps, too. Moves.

Fuck, wow. You both groan and then laugh together because, well, you’re not sure why. But he’s smiling and his hair is in his bright eyes and it’s snowing outside. Hazy white and everything is muffled and cocooned in stillness, John warm and alive on top of you in a bed that has a weird shape and too many blankets and pillows, just so you can sleep in the rumpled nest of it all. It’s early enough for just hazy twilight shadows and the slide of your bodies against the sheets is loud. You can hear his heart and maybe he can’t hear yours, but he must be able to feel it. 

You graze his waist with your thighs encouragingly. John moves, grinding into you with his lips at the edge of your mouth and your nook tries to hold him in, and the drag of his cock out against that grip kindles a deep satisfying ache that makes you thrill again.

While John fucks you, you wrap yourself around him, arms and legs and lips and soul, until he’s driving into you hard enough to jostle the bed and inch you up. Your bulge glazes his lower stomach and you allow yourself to bite, finally, at his shoulder and John’s so gone with pleasure and heady pheromones that he moans softly, whispering cruel, _sweet_ words against your horn that make you claw at his back. Enough to mark, enough to make him feel good, too, enough that he’ll hiss as the marks tug and twinge at his skin later - and fuck if you don’t like knowing that he’ll still be able to feel you, hours, maybe even days later.

Yours.

He’s giving you tight jabs that jar your breath and John’s hot to the touch, skin burning and he’s close, you can tell, the way he trembles and pants warm and damp into your mouth, too hazy to kiss and you can feel him getting thicker, harder. His brows pinch together with how good he feels, like he’s afraid he might not survive it, but unable to stop. 

You kiss his cheek and press your foreheads together.

Close. Heavy liquid heat that makes it hard to do much but breathe each other’s air, lick your lips and his, loose and slack and wanting. John moves his hands to curl them along your throat ( _oh_ ). Kisses your mouth, a slow clinging peck as he watches your from under dark lashes, eyes like the sky. It’s too much, too sweet, and you can feel your abdomen going taut and hard, scrabble at his back in surprise and howl as your orgasm hits you and can’t curl up towards him, can’t get away from it, can only lie there and drown in it as John keeps you pinned by your neck ( _gentle gentle no mercy_ ) and fucks you through the aftershocks and more, when you’re coming down, making shaking chirps and thrills because you’re too sensitive for this but, wow, John, _god_.

Your belly is covered in your release and it’s running along the slit of your nook, down the cleft of your ass and dripping onto the towel. It’s kind of gross, but it’s not important right now. Not with John balanced on the edge and waiting for you to catch him. He likes to be kissed when he’s about to come, so you search dazedly for his mouth he kisses you so slow and deep and desperate it’s all you can do but hang on. John comes with one of his rare louder noises, you like them, they’re not like yours and utterly alien, all voice and breath, a long sustained note. Almost melodic like a song. It sounds incredible spilling out against your lips.

It’s shorter than yours, almost over as soon as it happens, but it leaves him destroyed and shivery as you cuddle his flushed face under your chin. His lips move against your skin and you drape your arms along his neck like a heavy collar, mouth in his hair. It’s the middle of the winter, but you feel like you’re leaking sunlight, bright enough people’d see you shine from the other end of the universe.

And then your leg twitches.

“Okay,” you say, patting his shoulder. “Get the fuck off, I’m getting a cramp.”

“Grf,” John mumbles against your skin. “Make me.”

It takes a little more energy than you were prepared to expend at the moment, but you push him away (bad decision - _yeek_ , the way his cock slips out of you and allows for more of your genetic material to flow free - weird as hell feeling). John flops off, rolls, once, twice and on over the edge of the bed.

Hits the floor with a resounding thump and a grunt.

You crawl to peek over the edge - careful to keep your crotch on the towels. “What the hell?”

“I think I broke something,” he whines, a heap of lanky limbs and crazy black hair. “Come and kiss it better.”

And because it’s Christmas and you’re pretty sure he got you a colourful box with a nice something inside of it, you do. Wipe your crotch before clambering out of bed to settle over him. John gazes up at you, eyes lidded. Grins.

Sticks something to your forehead. One of those shiny, tacky gift bows in red.

“Oh my fucking god,” you sigh, because you’re pretty sure what’s coming.

“Aw, Karkat,” he croons.

Yup. You were right. Holy shit.

“Just what I wanted,” he continues, hugging you hard and making you go ‘grpfl!’ as you collapse into his chest. “You shouldn’t have.”

And then of fucking course because he’s an absolute piece of rampant vermin, he begins to hum again - yes, _that_ \- and before he gets it into his addled pan to sigh about how _you’re the best present, it’s you, Karkat_ you just clamp a paw over his jabber yap to shut him up. Kiss him a little. Maybe more than a little. Kiss him warm and lazy with clinging lips and soft noises until it gets so damn cold your gills itch with it. Drag the sheets off the bed and over you both and kiss some more, deeper and warmer until you’re both ready to go again.

 

So, yeah, you didn’t get him a box. 

John doesn’t seem to mind at all.

**Author's Note:**

> -> I played with some head canons here
> 
> -> FOR [BLUEARTURTLE](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ->Super attractive [John](http://orangelemonart.tumblr.com/post/58272049824/affectionate-morning-person-karkat-is-my-favorite) based on [orangelemonart](http://orangelemonart.tumblr.com/)'s (incidentally also affectionate morning person Karkat)
> 
> -> gillkat for [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/) (also thanks so much for the super fast beta!)
> 
> -> 'fermented ground grass seed tray' ; thanks to [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/) and [mtorolite](http://mtorolite.tumblr.com) for the suggestions!


End file.
